Falling Around You
by bulelo
Summary: Closing her eyes, she lies in the place where their lives burned into the earth, listening for the heartbeat of Rukongai. There's a cuckoo, both far away and inside her eardrum. Her own voice, consumed by grief. Then the Buddhist prayers, ashes, a moth. The scent of hakone grass. And when Momo rises, as if nothing had happened, she meets the god of the machine. [SI/OC]
1. One Thousand and One Nights

**A/N:** I was highly inspired by fics like _To Love a Monster_ by Coolio101 and what Aizen could be, outside of an antagonist. My OC replaces the existing Momo Hinamori and will also toe the line between good and evil. This story starts before the events of Bleach and will eventually catch up with major canon events. I may deviate in terms of when and how certain characters meet, as well as play around with relationships. I hope you'll stick with me and be an active reader.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my OCs and concepts. Cover art by Kasiq Jungwoo.

* * *

"I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating."

—Jean-Paul Sartre, _Being and Nothingness_

I. One Thousand and One Nights

"He hurt mommy again," Senya says, while watering the almond blossoms. "This time, for good."

In a single column of light, the eight-year-old girl tends to her indoor garden one last time. The balcony curtains rise overhead and cast a long shadow on her face. It mixes with the marbled bruise on her cheek and the red river running down her neck. She remains unperturbed and lets the knife wound drain into the carpet; it helps to lean forward and smell the flowers.

"Mom used to whisper mountain stories into my ear," she begins, "stories of the ghost women and the stars in their hair. They would ride the wave-crest of Okinawa and leave sparkles on the beach path for curious passersby. Tiny ocean gods that played with the humans all night long."

The snipping of leaves is interrupted by a low moan. On the plastic couch, nursing a broken arm and multiple stab wounds, Charlie lies in his own pool of blood. His bald spot shines upward between dark tufts of hair, as he foams at the mouth and stretches for something on the ground. The girl spares him no glance; the ceremony must go on.

"She was a good woman." Soundlessly, Senya lifts a vase into her lap, rocking in the slight breeze like dandelion fluff. "Not a full-time mother, but she did her best. Always waited for me with open arms after school and cooked omurice between the black eyes and bottle cuts. I grew flowers, so she'd forget that we live in a place where nothing lasts, but Charlie killed most of those, too."

A damp pause. Senya inhales, haunted by this room, this house full of neglect. "You are the lucky ones." She stands and brings the blossoms with her, balancing them on her good shoulder. With a swift kick, the cellphone flies out of Charlie's reach as he lets out one final, garbled scream.

In the master bedroom, the girl places the plant by her mother's head with the utmost care. It mingles with the dozens of other dead flowers. Moths have chewed through most of the stems, feasting on the utter absence of life in the space.

The comatose patient appears no different from the rest of them—gaunt and brutalized—but at least she's asleep. There is nothing left for them here. In her dreams, she must already be at the edge of the world, with her old leather satchel and favorite novel in tow. Ready for the next big adventure. Maybe the afterlife will look like Barcelona; she's always wanted to go there.

"I'm sorry I wasn't home." One by one, tears fall from the daughter's face. "I'm sorry you were all alone with him, but we'll be together now. It won't hurt anymore, I promise."

After giving the woman one last kiss, Senya winds her fingers around an iron cord with practiced nerve. The oxygen machine rattles in her grip, beeping to the rhythm of blood loss. She tilts her head up to the ceiling in penance.

"Give her my next life, won't you?" the girl begs the sky. "Somewhere by the sea, where the ghost women are. She belongs with the stars."

She pulls the plug, hard. Lights out.

* * *

Senya has always hated spring. The sakura lining the cookie-cutter buildings and flatbread highways of Karakura Town like powdered sugar. The sparrows between the eaves of a blushing dawn. Old and awful memories of dying in a grocery store parking lot, hours before an important science exam. The darkness. Waking up as a child, all over again, only for this new world to have no place for her.

One can imagine the utter disbelief when Senya finds herself sitting on the steps of the apartment complex, still fully cognitive and aware. She watches incredulously as the police and coroners make quick work of the scene, as though only moments had passed since she'd committed her crimes. The body bags disappear into two black vans, the neighbors' statements ringing in her ears.

The girl prepares to call out to the people, but when she raises a transparent hand, she knows that there is no case to be made. The window to her right produces no reflection, and there is no worldly sensation other than the rusty chain, endless and provocative, jutting out of her breast.

The metal seems all-too familiar, but the most pressing matter is how she fails to vanish, long after the red and blue lights leave.

"I'm still here," Senya whispers to herself. "Why am I still here?"

The half-answer comes from another "ghost," his entrance signaled by a snicker. A teenage boy observes her from the middle of the courtyard, donning striped overalls and fiddling with a yo-yo. His neck is cut clean and deep; absently, Senya notes that their wounds match.

"You too?" She points to his chain, which is visibly shorter than hers. The ends are speckled and frayed, as if it has been eaten and regurgitated. Senya cringes at the invasive thought.

"Dead? Yes, very." The other spirit crosses the path quickly, meeting her with a handshake and smile. "The name's Nori. What do they call you, ragdoll?"

She stares at his flickering hand for an uncomfortable amount of time. Nori retracts it with a nervous laugh.

"Er, Senya, right?" He throws his yo-yo out, blue and beige and deadly. "I heard it from one of the uniforms. Stabbed father with shears. Cut off mother's oxygen supply. Died by self-inflicted blood loss. Now _that's_ what I call a grade B movie!"

When there is no response, Nori looks abashed and adds, "Sorry, you must've had it rough."

"Rough would imply that I had no choice," Senya finally says. Her eyes glaze over, nails tapping down the length of her chain. "I just picked the most painful outcome."

"Why?"

"Because nobody would notice otherwise, and..." The girl pretends to think about it, before the satisfaction settles between the whites of her teeth. She tilts her head for good measure. "Because I could."

Dissatisfied, and more than a little disturbed, Nori opens his mouth, but Senya beats him to it.

"I remember you. You're the boy from four years ago who made national headlines."

"Yep, that's me. They never did find my body."

"Is that why you're still a ghost?"

"I… I couldn't tell you," Nori admits. He seems more subdued, as if sharing a secret. "I just know that one moment people could see me, and the next, they couldn't. I don't think we can leave this place."

"Have you tried?" Senya crosses her arms and frowns. "It's kind of unfair that we spent our lives stuck in a bad place, only to have to stay there forever."

Nori shrugs, returning to his bench. "I don't make the rules, and as you can see, nothing changed until you showed up." He pulls out a pack of cards, which shift in and out of existence. "Care for some Poker? Solitaire?"

Seeing Senya walk towards the gates, the boy shakes his head and shuffles the deck.

"Don't resist it!" he calls. "It only gets harder from here."

And it certainly does. Every time the girl tries to leave, whether climbing the wall or sprinting past the mailboxes, some invisible force reels her chain back. On more than one occasion, she even throws Nori's yo-yo for good measure, but it boomerangs back into her face. The teen just laughs at her, especially when she lands in the fountain.

"Never seen someone with so much resolve." Nori whistles, throwing down a flush. Beat, Senya scowls and cleans up the cards for another round. She gave up after getting her chain caught in a tree. "You're gonna go places if you defeat this."

"I can't even win at card games," she says. "And I don't know what _this_ is. Maybe if two people worked on escaping, it might make a difference."

"Hun, I don't do difference," he says. "I don't have ambitions and nobody's waiting for me. Better to just let things remain as they are."

"Stagnation is what killed me and my mother," Senya replies. A couple of minutes pass in awkward silence, before she changes the subject. "Do you believe in a god?"

"I do." Several expressions cross Nori's face, each more confused than the last, until he settles on a fond smirk. "Well, actually, my sister was the true believer. She used to take me to church until I got into some bad shit and stopped going. At home, she always reminded me that I was a child of God, no matter what I did."

His eyes grow murky then, like the soil at the bottom of a rainforest. "I think the big guy created the world and then left us to figure everything out. Talk about an existential crisis."

Senya nods, thinking about the hundreds of scriptures and books she poured over about reincarnation, only to recognize the futility. Maybe the universe did have something to tell her, but she isn't sure what lesson dying twice is supposed to teach.

Picking up on her melancholy, Nori takes her hands into his. "Hang out with me," he starts, "until you feel better. Until all of this goes away."

Senya looks at him long and hard , wondering if there really is a deity in this world. She wonders what they'd look like, what form they would take. Do they enjoy anything? Do they hate anything? Would they have mercy on a pair of wayward children?

Why did they let their creations live in the first place, only to be met with a lonely eternity?

As the seasons change from the hateful spring to a groggy summer, and finally, a gentle winter, the girl feels these questions die in her heart. She and Nori still haven't disappeared, which comes as no surprise to either of them, but as the days drag on, the latter looks increasingly sick. Senya can see the outline of his teeth peek under his sunken cheeks. He rarely seems to blink anymore, eyes suspended by the skin.

Their ending comes with the first snowfall. There should've been nothing out of the ordinary. The girl initiates a snowball fight while Nori makes a lopsided angel. But something shifts in the air, closing in on their space for two, and when the projectile hits him, the boy begins to convulse. She rushes to his side immediately as his face turns a blotchy purple.

"Nori, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? What's happening?"

"I-I don't know," he coughs. He scratches at his skin, particularly where his neck wound lies, like he wants out out _out OUT_. "You s-shouldn't touch me. Leave me-me alone."

"I can't do that," Senya says. She reaches out to grab his hands but he pushes her away.

" _Don't_ ," he seethes, embracing himself tightly.

"Nori—"

Taking a step back, the girl can see the nub of his chain clearly, hollowing into the cavity of his chest, where his heart is supposed to be. The remaining metal appears diseased, rupturing into shades of black. No blood falls from the growing hole, but it drains from Senya's face as her friend suddenly screams and screams and _screams_.

"Nori, it's me! Senya! I'm here for you!" She kneels by him and grips his shoulders. "We need to get you help."

 _Help?_ she thinks. _What help? Nobody can help us. Not even God._

Abruptly, the teen goes stock-still, resting his head against a rock. Senya breathes a sigh of relief at the stabilization, until she hears a charcoal-filled laugh. Nori rises and knocks the girl away, eyes rolling back into their sockets. His face begins to peel, like pale paint from a rusty bench, before a milky sheen sprays from his mouth and a light bursts from his pores, blinding the world.

When Senya has come to, gasping from the equivalent of punctured ribs, she is face-to-face with evil incarnate. The boy no longer exists, but a gray, bulbous creature. It looms overhead and tugs at the barbed wires around its neck, never once looking away from its prey. She smells dead animal from its exhale and dry-heaves. What appears to be a white mask molds around the head into grotesque bull horns, thick-jawed and uneven, pulling back from around the blue jugular to reveal a set of pin-needle teeth.

 _Like something out of a manga_ , her mind provides. _An old, beloved manga with an orange haired hero and spirits and sword-fighting…_

She doesn't dare breathe or move, trying to find some semblance of Nori and piece together the incoming memories—that is, until the creature chomps right down into her left arm. The limb almost comes clean off the shoulder, held on barely by the veiny seams. It takes seconds for her flight instincts to kick in and another minute for the pain to pound a migraine into her brain, like a marching band on funeral grounds. She bites back the hysteria in her throat.

Senya throws a leg out at the monster's glowing eye, scrambling from under its black hole as it makes an absolutely miserable sound. She runs towards the street, but abruptly her chain yanks her back into the danger, mercilessly trapping her in the area. The creature catches on quickly to her escape plans, aiming those massive, grimy hands at the metal.

In a last-ditch effort, she hooks the chain between the incoming teeth and yanks hard, effectively breaking half of the links, as well as the majority of the monster's jaw. It screeches at the cloudy sky and salivates over its broken calcium. In its slow recovery, Senya wildly peers down at the damage.

 _Now I've really done it_ , she thinks. _Am I going to become an eater, too?_

She then catches sight of Nori's yo-yo, discarded at her feet. As she bends to pick it up, Senya notices the little red star on its side, twinkling against the snow. Just as the first tear slips from her lashes, a warped voice breeches her daze.

"... sorry… di… not… want… hurt you…"

Her head snaps up, honing in on the creature and how it drags itself across the white expanse. She almost takes a step back, prepared to run, until she sees it catch a glimpse of its own hands as if for the first time. An awful wail hits the air as it twists and writhes on the ground.

"This… not... me… _ahhh_!"

"Nori," Senya says. In her stupor, her feet carry her to him, yo-yo unfurling between her good fingers. The monster howls, attempting to right itself and get away from her.

"... leave… you… die… please…"

She finally stops and stares death right in the grisly, horned face. As it claws at its own chest, pulling at the hole where its heart used to be, Senya reaches out with the toy. It views the object with hesitant fascination and coos.

"Your sister gave this to you on your thirteenth birthday," she begins, "a year before you were killed by her partner. You've been waiting for her to come back, haven't you?"

Slowly, the girl raises her undamaged arm and the yo-yo, the winter sun on her back. What had once been her friend crawls even closer, whining and gnashing its broken teeth. There is little distance between the two now.

"The truth is, Nori, people make decisions without you in mind. Even when you beg them to leave bad people, to wake up, to come back, to not become the ghost stories they used to tell you, people do what they think will hurt the least… when it will actually hurt the most."

Gently, she brings her hand down to the forehead of the creature. As she taps across its bone mask, searching for the emptiest sound, it gets a whiff of her blood and starts to salivate.

 _Clunk!_

"I always go for the pain first," she says. "Saves everyone the trouble later." The beast growls lowly. "You can stop waiting now, Nori."

Before it bites into her, Senya smashes the star toy into its skull, digging deep. The monster shrieks once, twice, before flailing and swinging the girl away. When the darkness sets in, she almost misses the man in the newspaper cap catching her and slicing Nori— _Hollow_ , her half-brain supplies—down the middle with what appears to be a... katana?


	2. Nothing to Forgive

**A/N:** Our protagonist is finally on the highway to hell. Please let me know what you think and enjoy!

* * *

"I figured out that I can't forget. I can't really forgive. But I can live. Live with it. Like you live with a scar or a limp or whatever. You always know it's there. It reminds you never to let yourself do anything so stupid and horrible and wrong again. I step out of my rut, step again, and keep stepping."

—Gail Giles

II. Nothing to Forgive

Senya wakes up against a metal jungle-gym to a man with an immaculate, dirty-blonde bob. The straight-edge bangs emphasize his leery gaze and sharp chin, which somehow retain a lazy sort of charm to them. She blinks away the haze and startles properly at the stranger.

"Awake, are ya?" he asks, yawning into his sleeve. He takes his cap off and dusts it off, balancing on his haunches.

The girl sees the sword on his lap and her lack of reflection, jolting back into hysteria. "W-Where am I? Where is Nori?" Small hands close in on her scalp and she scans her surroundings. They are situated at the edge of a playground, the gates of her apartment complex not too far away. The freedom doesn't register at all in Senya's mind—or the fact that she's talking to someone other than her one friend.

 _He's gone, just like that_ , she thinks. _I lost someone I love again._

"Ya have a nose, now breathe through it." The man thumps her back and the girl coughs out the breath she'd been holding in.

"What was that for?!"

"You looked constipated." When she gives him the most intense stink eye he's ever seen— _that's some Hiyori-level shit_ —he falls back and puts his hands up in surrender. "Hey, hey, just being helpful, ya know? S'not everyday I go out of my way to save a soul."

Senya blinks, brain catching up to reality. "You can see me," she blurts.

"Sure can!" He's tilting his head here and there like she's some new kind of bird, a long grin flickering on his face. "Still tryna figure out what you are, though."

"A dead girl. A ghost. Take your pick."

"You can't be, they ain't supposed to bleed like that." The man points to where her chain starts, swirling his index finger. "Look, you have a bloody hole here and don't even notice. And you beat the shit out of a Hollow with a yo-yo! Ya can't be real, you're like the reverse of a soul. Absolutely backwards, I tell ya, but that's right up my alley."

Senya frowns deeply and removes a hand from her chest, coated in crimson and pulp. She flexes her working fingers for good measure, the other mangled arm hanging limply at her side, cringing at the gory sight.

When she looks back up at him, she notices that they are sitting in the sky now, the jungle-gym upside down on the other side. Senya tries to not give away her surprise; the man seems to get a thrill out of shocking others.

"On second thought," he begins, "I think I'll let you be someone else's mystery—"

"I don't understand what's happening," she interrupts. "I died, I know I did. It's not the first time, sure, but then I met Nori and we both had these chains coming out of us, and then he… he changed into _that_."

"The first step to wisdom is avoiding boys," her companion says, stroking his imaginary beard. "Not until you hit that special age, if ya feel me."

Senya doesn't think that anyone's advice could be so unnecessary.

"Since you're wondering," the man continues, "yer friend turned into something called a Hollow."

 _Thump._ That strikes a distant chord in her mind, like when she was face-to-face with the creature itself earlier.

"Hollow is an adjective," Senya says, earning a flick to the forehead. "Ow!"

"Think again, little wisecrack. They're pluses gone bad, human souls that run outta time and lose their hearts."

 _Thump._ Losing hearts? Pluses? Just what is she missing—

 _The boy named strawberry, a society of spirits, the end of the world, death—_

She feels her heart drop into her blood-soaked gut instantly, as images of her favorite childhood story come to life. They arrive in waves, from when she cracked open the first volume in her fifth grade classroom in her other life to the name of her current hometown, Karakura.

"No," Senya breathes to herself. The tears build against her lashes, for both the loss of Nori and her earth-shattering revelation. "No way."

"Kid?"

"I'm screwed." The girl stands up, searching for a life eject button. "I can't do this. I have to get out of here."

 _I'm in the world of Bleach._

"I have to leave. I-I can't be in this world. Not like this."

 _Shinji Hirako, I know_ _who you are._ _A captain that lost his whole life and friends in one night. I know that seeing you here means that the real monster has yet to come out_ —

"Yeeeaah, I think you've had enough." He rises too and rolls his shoulders. "Time to get you home."

"What? I don't have one anymore."

Her eyes dart everywhere, for just one small window to get the hell out of here. That plan gets completely derailed though when the man lifts her by the scruff of her long-sleeve, flipping his sword with the hilt sticking out. She tries in vain to shove him away, her transparency kicking in now of all times.

"Why, 'course you do. All souls have one. I haven't done this in a while, so bear with me. Konsō!"

With that, he taps the harmless end of his weapon onto her forehead, sending a wash of good feeling over her body. It's a pleasant sensation between drifting through air and floating in water, blue light pooling from the bottom to the top like a developing chrysalis.

"Wha… did you… just…"

He ruffles her hair affectionately and watches as her legs begin to fade. "What's your name, kid?"

"Senya…"

"Shinji Hirako, at your service. I have a feeling that we'll see each other again. I hope ya survive whatever district you wind up in!"

 _I'll show you district, you clown,_ is Senya's final thought, before she disappears into the euphoria.

* * *

February in West Rukongai unfurls like a sticky rice dumpling with its snow-baked roofs and parasols. The Junrinan red light district comes to life at the turn of noon, marketplace stocked with seasonal wares and confectionery stands. But the Red Spider Lily has certainly seen better days.

"Still no word on Momo?"

"Y-yes, Oyakata-sama. The courtesans have been gathering information, b-but no one has heard from her in five days."

"Have you sent out Miyako yet?"

"She is on her way to the seventh border as we speak—"

Suddenly, a spray of sake whips across the maids' faces. They backpedal in fear and run out, leaving behind their stack of wanted posters. The owner of the teahouse pours himself another cup and downs it in one gulp. He grabs a sheet and stares a hole through the sketch.

"Already near the eighth district? She gets more crafty with each passing day." He wipes his mouth, brimming with mischief. "Wouldn't you say so, Oiran Bel?"

Caught in the act, a woman clad in fine rose silks and sea green pins emerges from behind the curtains. Her blonde locks frame intelligent cobalt eyes contrasting dark skin. Purple markings on both cheeks denote the place she once came from, but only select people recognize them for anything other than their exotic beauty.

"Is that not why you purchased her?" Like a will-o'-wisp, she moves to sit by him and pours herself a cup of sake. A flash of her wrist—the silent invitation to visit her room later.

"If I knew she would lose me 50 kan an hour, I might have reconsidered."

"Quite the liar today," Bel says. "You actually enjoy the rebellion."

"No, I enjoy crushing it. Very different."

"And yet you let her run farther than all the other girls have."

Unable to refute, Nagano passes the poster to his best-selling lady, who inspects it with a secret smile. She traces a slight nose and mouth, a scorching stare. "What was it you said to me last month?"

"Ah, about her eyes?"

"Like gazing into the sun," Bel reminds.

"Yes, the closest one might get to containing heaven," he confirms, thoughtfully. Instinctively, Nagano raises a hand to his face, where a cotton shield greets his fingertips. Something like pleasure passes over his features, then. "You know, she hasn't cried in the blue room yet. It's never taken this long before."

Fixed in his musings, he fails to see the thunder in Bel's face at the mention of that room. Soon, it is lost behind a fan and another cup of alcohol. For this is a transient world, full of transient people who feel transient things and own nothing at all. Not even their own anger and pain.

"I think the little peach blossom is attending a funeral."

"Whose?" Resignation washes over Nagano when he catches on. "It better not be for Hirumi. I told Momo to let it go. There is not even a body to bury."

The courtesan does not respond immediately. Instead, she listens to the quiet thump of footfalls, the wind from the open window catching in her hair. She imagines what kind of life their newest girl will lead; what this world does to the poor souls that wind up here, than in a Hollow's belly.

"Children require space to be their own people," Bel finally says. She raises the final toast. "She will learn to pray only for herself, soon enough. Just give her some time."

"We have all the time in the world, my dear." Nagano chuckles and meets her halfway. "I hope I will be the first to see her kneel."

Meanwhile, in the eighth district of Rukongai, where the road is sparse, Momo Hinamori loses her fish dinner. The assailants had been twice her size, straw hats outlined in the winter light, as they beat her into the mold of a snow angel. At the very least, she managed to kick one of them where it hurts and bite the other one bloody—not that her own nose is intact, either.

"Shit."

The girl makes the royal mistake of breathing. Turning into the ground, she sighs as the cold works its magic into her broken cartilage. Given how many people Nagano sent after her this time, things could be worse. She has always been good at hiding; her mother made sure of that. But today, her luck is almost out the door.

At least these guys left Hirumi alone. Her slate urn sits nearby in a ring of lilies, a poorly-cut gravestone beside it. In the circle, her belongings have been scattered: brass pocket watch, kimono journal, beanbag for stressful nights.

"I brought you home, Hirumi-san," Momo says. "Away from the teahouse that deflowered you. The one that left you to die, when you couldn't walk anymore. I hope you get a proper burial next time."

 _Crunch._

The much-hounded girl does not bother acknowledging the sound, knowing full well who it could be. Instead, she digs herself further into the snow until the figure hovers directly over her. A handkerchief begins to dab at her facial blood, gentle but furious, and she lets out an involuntary laugh.

"You again, Miyako-hime?" Momo asks.

"You again, Hinamori?" the teenager mimics. Her regal appearance—high cheekbones, impeccable crown of hair, and a kimono that probably cost three houses—hides a displeasure that runs deeper than just this mission.

"Don't you have better things to do than track down a child?"

"A fugitive is still a fugitive, whether or not they're under ten." The dabbing intensifies, earning a groan. "One of these days, you won't have a nose left."

"It was worth it this time." Pushing onto her back, Momo's black hair spills out from its pearl clip. Equally dark eyes reflect a clear sky, and below the chin rests a jagged, horizontal scar. It runs across the middle of her neck, the only physical reminder of her past. She will probably never figure out how the wound transferred to this new body; she does not particularly want to know, either.

When Miyako finishes cleaning, she props the victim up against a rock and brushes off the excess snow. Mid-swipe, Momo breaks the silence.

"How much did your uncle give you this time?" she asks.

"What?"

"Enough to pay your way into the Onmitsukidō?"

"Watch your tongue!" Miyako commands. She pulls out a dagger and holds it against the girl's neck. The metal glints like fresh ice. "If you insist on being difficult, I can have your punishment significantly worsened."

"If I was afraid of someone like you, I would've died a long time ago."

A hand rises to strike her, but Momo doesn't so much as flinch; in fact, she looks expectant, like this will neither be the first nor last time she incurs violence. Her tar sand gaze sends a jolt down Miyako's spine, as predator inches closer to prey.

"What's wrong?" Momo asks. "Did you lose your nerve?"

"I-I—"

"When you start something, you better finish it."

The teen flinches when fingers slide into her hair and pull her further into the frost-touched rage. A feral grin from her younger counterpart worsens the pressure.

"I wonder if anyone can hear us out here." A genuine pause, before the hold is casually released. "Well, I don't care enough to find out. I guess your uncle wins again, _Azuki-sama_."

Miyako falls onto her palms, shaking. White puffs hit the air in uneasy bursts, sweat running in pale streaks. Looking upon the damage, Momo sighs and scratches the back of her head. Soon enough, she is standing and tugging the other youth down the path. There is not so much as one word between the two, until a rickshaw is called and they are on their way to the nearest inn. The first district will take two days to get back, and Rukongai is not the kindest to nightly travelers.

"Sorry for scaring you," Momo says. "I'm not actually angry at you. I know Nagano put you up to this."

"I deserve it," Miyako replies. "I brought you to uncle in the first place. Abducted you at the gates before you could choose for yourself."

Momo refrains from telling her who she was before all of this, that this world used to be a fictional place that came out every week in Shōnen Jump. She had always been the first to buy out the adventures of Ichigo and his friends, the merchandise associated with the Gotei 13; she was also one of many who shed a tear when the series ended, too, the way it did.

Somehow, Shinji Hirako had sent her to the physical place, where pretty prostitutes are lined up at all hours of the day and extravagance, unlike anywhere else, rains down in alcohol. At first, "Senya" had ferociously rejected Nagano and the teahouse, knowing what happened to single women in this society.

But ice crackled through her veins when she heard her new name. _Momo Hinamori_ —a scrawny, doe-eyed stranger who peered back at her in the mirror. Before the Shinigami, before the war, before Aizen. The mere mention of him sent her spiraling.

No matter how many ways she chooses to observe these circumstances, there is no plausible explanation, no rush of purpose or prophecy. Just a powerless little girl with a future that seems less avoidable the more she thinks about it. A couple of weeks ago, she had seriously contemplated ending herself and risking another rebirth, but there is something rather grotesque about playing roulette again. It's not like the second life worked out that well, either; would the life of an imposter be better?

Before her thoughts run her ragged, Miyako's proposal brings her back to reality.

"What if I help you escape?"

Momo blinks. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Or, or I can make you ugly, so he won't desire you anymore."

"I'd rather not have another scar." The lantern light illuminates the way she laughs at the suggestion. "Besides, Nagano doesn't like to let go of his toys. What will stop him from killing you or Granny, if I run away for good?"

At the mention of Granny, Momo feels a surge of affection. They met on a rainy day during her first escape attempt. The girl sprained her ankle while climbing off the tiled roof and found herself hobbling to the candy store, where the elder patched her up and encouraged her to buy her freedom, rather than live a life on the run.

Soon, they would have a new addition to the family; she could only guess what the appearance of Tōshirō Hitsugaya could mean for her life. And what are the odds of Momo running into the grandmother of the future ice captain? Fate is rather determined to run its course.

Perhaps meeting one of her favorite characters will not endanger her immediately. Rather, it may be coming at the most opportune time, when the timeline has not yet revealed itself and spun out of control.

When they arrive to the Wisteria Branch Inn in the seventh district, Miyako asks, "Why do you look unfazed? Hasn't uncle put you through the blue room?"

"I visit it almost every day," Momo says, almost smiling at the corresponding gasp.

"Forgive me..."

"For what?"

"For all of this," Miyako stresses. Her sleeves are frayed from repeated gripping. "He's going too far. I want to make things right."

"When do you think he went too far?" The captive begins to list off with her fingers. "The existence of the blue room? That time he had waterboarded a guard? The prostitution? Truthfully, these are all unforgivable—at least, by rational human standards."

"What do you mean?"

"There are some things only time can pass judgment on," Momo answers. "You feel bad for me, but I don't even feel bad for me. I know that we all pay for who we are eventually. When that day arrives for your uncle, I just hope I have a front seat." With that, she slides open the door and gestures to a stunned Miyako.

"After you, m'lady."

The small clan heiress evidently pays for the room and tells no one that she slept with her dagger extra close that night.


	3. The Passage to Womanhood

**A/N:** Finally getting back into the groove of writing again! This chapter's double the usual length; please enjoy and let me know your thoughts.

* * *

"It is better to burn than to disappear."

—Albert Camus

III. The Passage to Womanhood

They are watching her again. The many, many eyes like sharp river stones behind the wooden bars. Ikebana has been moved to the main room, where idle talk flutters about like magnolia butterflies. Between the girls chatting and the men whistling from outside the Red Spider Lily, there is little in the way of peace for Momo's mind.

Her grimace offsets the flowers in front of her. Yesterday, Nagano's men had her hands burn on ice for hours, an alternative to the usual confinement. Today, she is placed in the top-right corner, where already two men have made to grab her waistband.

She is usually good about keeping a straight face, but decides to throw all caution to the wind when the third guy tries. Without looking, she holds his pinky finger and bends it as far back as possible, eliciting the most anguished sound.

"It's broken! It's broken!" He reels his hand back, his friends breaking out into a cold sweat behind him.

"Sir, I suggest seeing Hasegawa-san." Momo points to the general store across the road, batting her lashes. "He's a miracle worker. I'm sure he'll even sell you a better personality!"

"You little bitch—"

"It's n-not worth it," another man advises. "The kamuro are off-limits, anyway. Come on, let's go. We'll ring up a courtesan later."

After the injured fellow gets in a couple more curses, the group retreats down the street. Very few people bother Momo after that... well, there are always exceptions.

"That wasn't very nice, Hinamori-chan," Mifune scolds. A heavy-set girl with large scallop eyes and lavender hair that ropes down her back. Momo is no longer surprised by the purple shade—anime is as anime does. At least she doesn't have the hair color of a main character; brunette has never been a better look.

"I don't owe them anything."

"We are meant to be admired. That's what flowers do."

"Flowers don't just serve aesthetic purposes." She clips a rose, imagining Nagano's neck in its place. "Besides, why can't they just be left alone to bloom?"

"But you're so pretty, Hinamori-chan. You are good for this place." Mifune sticks a peach blossom in her companion's hair, to which the recipient tosses it out. "Sooo what's with the kid?"

"You never seen a baby before?" Momo asks. Secured on her back, an almost two-year-old Tōshirō wakes from his slumber, a clear sea captured in his eyes. A gray bandana hides the white mop of hair beneath, for the most part; she gave up advising people against their superstitions. "Say hello to Mifune, Shirō-chan."

The baby only snuggles into his source of warmth, gurgling in content. Mifune coos back and circles a branch over him.

"Where did you get him?"

"He arrived maybe a month ago," Momo explains. "Granny's boy. We switch off every week looking after him." Leaning in, she whispers the next part, just for kicks. "Once he's older, I'll run off with him and start a dance business. Isn't that right, my little snowball?"

She dodges the same branch, aimed at her face.

"Don't go saying such nonsense!" Mifune peers in all directions like a paranoid chicken. "What if Nagano-sama hears?"

"Nagano has better things to do than watch us," Momo says. The lack of honorifics makes her counterpart gape. "He's probably counting his money right now and topping off a bottle of gin. Not a very complicated man."

With one last touch of camellia, the girl yawns and sets aside her creation. She's the first person to finish their arrangement: a slanting mixture of boughs and blossoms reflecting a modern sensibility, one that displaces her further in this feudal world. A person will sooner find a piece like this in an art museum than in an Edo period teahouse, but the less she proves herself accustomed to the old ways, the less valuable she'll be.

Not that that has worked so far, as Mifune painfully reminds her. "You know, Nagano-sama favors you greatly. You and I are some of the only apprentices who receive gifts." She has this look of absolute admiration on her face, like the new combs and trinkets will give her wings.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Momo says.

The afterlife has certainly resembled something out of a nightmare from hell. Momo still remembers being a ghost and watching Nori, on top of the excruciating helplessness when faced with a Hollow. Her inner demons only enhance the memories, jeering at how she must watch, yet again, as her life spirals out of control.

It kills her inside to witness the other girls, who are no more than a decade old, be consumed by the prostitution ring in Rukongai. What Nagano dares to call "the passage to womanhood"... is really no different from human-trafficking in the world of the living. The people may be blessed with a lack of hunger and age here, but what good is it to be forever poor and without autonomy? The governing body does next to nothing, too, with clans hoarding resources and the Shinigami performing military heavy-lifting for their own human rights.

She can't imagine what life must be like in the outer rings of the Rukon. Just how did characters like Rukia and Renji survive, up until the Academy?

"Hinamori-chan, you are the luckiest girl yet," Mifune continues. "Nobody has frequented the blue room as often as you—"

She is stopped by the look on Momo's face, the kind only depicted in scrolls of vengeful gods and goddesses. The girl opens her mouth to apologize—though what for, she has yet to understand—but, as if sensing the distress, Tōshirō begins to cry. Immediately, Momo twists the bundle around and bounces him.

"Dreams in a cradle, with the yellow moon shining down," she sings, her favorite Karakura lullaby. "Sleep, my child, sleep."

Soon, the baby quiets and palms the front of her clothes, drawing closer to the heartbeat trapped behind brocade and ice. She holds him there and exhales, equally calmed by his presence. When he first arrived, Momo was quick to view him as danger, as one of the reasons why her life will be short and painful; but with one playdate after another, Tōshirō earned a place in her plans. It is hard to consider canon when his hands barely wrap around her index finger.

Mifune watches the display in awe, the mention of the blue room swept under the rug. "The little guy has taken quite the shine to you. What's your secret?"

"Not using lead-based powder," Momo replies, cheekily. She reaches out to smudge the white paste off of Mifune's cheek. "You know this stuff gives you cancer, right?"

Before she receives a throttling, the doors open to welcome the top courtesan. Today, her red lipstick shimmers like a newborn fire as she makes an elegant beeline towards one particular rabble-rouser. The kamuro scramble to bow, with Momo making half of that effort and putting the rest into stopping Tōshirō from eating her hair. A few men outside hoot and holler, pressing at the bars to get a better look.

When the legendary beauty stops in front of Momo, the child puts on her most believable smile; inside, she can feel her stomach shrinking in on itself.

"Good evening, Bel-nee," she greets. "Are you out for a walk?"

"I thought it would be nice to smell the roses before rush hour," the Oiran affirms. Her sapphire eyes rake over the room, seizing many a young breath. Mifune, for one, exudes hearts. "Admire our indoor garden."

Her gaze falls upon the strange modern arrangement then, a gangly thing next to the dozens of ruby and gold compositions. Momo can hear the others snicker and winces at the scrutiny, a blush creeping up her neck.

"We don't normally use this flower in July," the courtesan claims, touching the single pink camellia at the base. A lithe finger stirs the petals, forcing the flower to reveal its saffron center. "Are you longing for something, little peach?"

A million things run through Momo's head. Her first household. That college degree in neuroscience she never finished. A personal library. A life without monsters and gods and the constant fear of loss. _Home_. But how does she share this with anyone, let alone her superior? Momo stares at the space where clogs and tatami join, not ready to meet the woman's gaze. Of all the flowers the Oiran decides to quiz her on, it's the one she thoughtlessly threw in.

"We all long for more," Momo answers, slowly. "Especially those of us with nothing other than a name."

Bel hums, drawing her hands back into large maroon sleeves. She begins to walk away, stopping short of the doors to beckon the kamuro.

"Follow me," she directs. "Bring the plants and baby with you, too."

It takes Momo a moment to process the instructions before following suit, almost tripping over her own feet and landing in someone else's arrangement. She sends a bewildered look to Mifune, who has the audacity to give her a thumbs-up. The trio soon disappear down the hallway and up the stairs to the courtesan floor.

Momo has never been up this high up before. Much like downstairs, the evening world peeks in from behind circular, wooden latticework, oranges and royal blues spilling diamonds onto the floor. The breeze smells of copper and skin, like the musk of some animal in heat. They pass by many striped doors illuminated by candlelight, each room louder than the next.

"Ah! Oh!"

If Momo has learned anything in her time here, it is that the louder the cries, the worse the scenario. She knows that the women _have_ to make noise—when alcohol and poetry are not enough for the clients—but recognizing that it's all for show doesn't make the journey any more bearable. One pair actually leaves their space open for all to see, and the girl hugs her flowers that much closer, eyes turned to the ceiling.

In comparison, Tōshirō giggles and claps at all of the sounds; she hopes he'll always retain that joy for life, even the unpleasant parts. She wonders what he'll think of her, too, years down the line, when she can no longer fool him with stories. When he realizes that she's also a pretty piece of meat on display, the shadow of a childhood friend.

At last, they arrive to the special quarters. Once Bel enters and sets her shoes aside, Momo closes up shop behind them. Here, the night does not reach them, though the courtesan surely has customers lined up outside to see her. The moon has barely risen, after all; the bell by the door will soon ring and usher in the mayhem.

"Where would you like this, Bel-nee?"

"On the white dresser," the woman says, undoing her kimono and updo with practiced ease. The river of gold winds down the folds of her underrobe, as she dangles an empty pipe between her lips.

After setting the vase down, Momo sits seiza by the entrance and releases Tōshirō from his bundle. He proceeds to crawl into her lap and bury himself into her stomach, which is cuter in theory. There is a canyon between the women—mainly put there by the tense kamuro—until Bel breaks the silence.

"I hear you are an avid reader."

"Yes," Momo admits, cautiously. It's one of the few things she and the original character share in common, which actually eases some of her fraudulence. "I clean sometimes for the bookkeeper in town and he lets me pick materials for the week."

"What is your latest project?"

"Infrastructure." When met with a regal eyebrow, Momo elaborates, "I am dissatisfied with the state of Rukongai and wanted to learn more about its composition."

"You are dissatisfied," Bel repeats, expression unreadable. She crushes some tobacco and herbs between her fingers. After bringing her pipe to life with a match, a sweet smell filling the space, the courtesan follows up. "What have you learned so far?"

Momo hesitates, unsure of where this is going; and most importantly, of what Bel's intentions are towards her. In the back of her mind, something tells her that the woman is important, someone who shouldn't be trifled with and who must've been a part of the canon. But with the shock of rebirth and fresh memories all jumbled up into one, the girl can't be sure.

"There used to be steady employment in the wood and clay industries," she finally says, deciding it won't hurt to confide in Bel. There are few people who can intellectually stimulate her, as it stands; why not stay for a good conversation? "What we know as Seireitei is fortified by the Sekkiseki mineral, provided to and maintained exclusively by Shinigami and the Noble Houses. Thus, the rest of Rukongai must make do with regular materials. However, after the Shinigami monopolized the mountains in the 3rd and 47th districts, production ceased for the peasant sectors and thus the state of repair remains abysmal. But like many resources in Rukongai, there is no official way of telling why the supply was cut short or who will kick-start it again.

What I don't understand is why those who are supposed to look after the masses fail to take notice of these things. Or maybe they don't want to, but they are sorely mistaken if they believe Rukongai should remain as is. It is where humans go after death, which is crucial for everything to run smoothly. To leave us with these living standards, especially in the high-numbered districts, is irresponsible."

Momo stops in her tracks, paling. This is the most she's spoken since arriving to Soul Society; not even Granny has heard these opinions. She bows deeply, forehead touching her overlapping fingertips. "I-I'm sorry, Bel-nee. I got carried away—"

"I do remember those days." The girl raises her head at the interruption, startled. Bel leans back into her freshly made futon, taking a long drag. "Quite a few people boycotted the changes to construction, only to be never heard from again. Some of my most loyal customers vanished into thin air."

"Did anyone investigate those disappearances?" Momo asks.

"Likely not." The Oiran rummages through her sleeve and produces a tangerine. She throws it to Momo, who catches it with one hand. "As you have delightfully explained, Shinigami are not concerned with commoners, though many were once like us. They will continue to perform their kōnso and slay corrupt souls, all in the name of balance."

The pipe smoke curls above their heads like a marmalade halo, the aroma almost nauseating. Momo peels the tangerine carefully, as if the fruit will bite back, and feeds Tōshirō a delicate, pulpy slice.

"As long as the world is full of inequities," the girl starts, "there will always be imbalance."

Bel tilts her head, studying the child with a predatory gaze. "Do you want to change the world, Momo-chan?"

A beat of silence, palms gone slack with perspiration. The baby in her lap vies for attention, before fiddling with the discarded fruit skin.

She envisions a young Momo and her first day at Shin'ō, running drills and making her lifelong friends. She imagines the instructors praising the woman for her aptitude in kidō, how she strikes every target that comes her way with the fire of a thousand suns; how she'll look at Aizen with the same intensity, during one of his famous calligraphy lessons. She thinks about how it will feel to finally connect with her Zanpakutō, Tobiume, only to lay it against the throats of the people she loves. A Gotei 13 fighting itself, blinded by one man's pursuit of godhood, and the captains, so held back by their principles that they cannot do what is right until a teenage hero shifts the order.

This Momo— _Senya—_ sees the end of the world, crushed beneath the foot of an ageless phenomenon, born from an empty throne, and all of the people who burn in his wake before the Quincy are stopped. What good will it do her, to fight what is written in stone?

"No," she says, brown eyes molten with something like fear. "I want to wake up every morning to a bowl of miso soup and the sun in my hair. I want to bake bread with Granny on holidays and give Tōshirō a proper childhood." She pauses then to adjust her cramping legs. "I want a simple life, even if the world remains disappointing."

"You are naive to think that people will give you that choice." Bel points to the girl's neck, where her scar glints an angry bronze in the lantern light. "Did the man who gave you that let you live as you wanted?"

"You don't know me." Momo grits her teeth, eyes darkening to burgundy. "You don't know what I did to him."

"Then show me." Time suddenly slows when the Oiran raises two fingers, and like a phantom pain, the girl recognizes the onset of an attack too late. "Bakudō #1: Sai!"

Immediately, a paralysis overcomes her, the grip of permafrost erupting across her skin. Her arms are locked behind, an invisible weight digging into her spine. She chokes on the pressure, and as she keels over, Bel chants another spell of yellow lightning. When Momo sees the target, all of the blood leaves her face.

" _No!_ "

"Bakudō #4: Hainawa!"

The stream of energy loops around Tōshirō, who laughs as he's bound and pulled towards the courtesan. She holds him by the scruff of his neck, a candle in the other hand. The pink wax is suspended down the length of floral carving.

"H-how do you know kidō?" Momo asks, struggling against her restraints.

"The Shinigami are not the only ones capable of manipulating reiryoku," Bel answers. She brings the fire closer to her hostage, whose breath is close enough to make the candle flicker. "You must never underestimate anyone."

"Would you hurt a baby to prove a point?"

"Rukongai-style persuasion, if you will." An alarming smile falls across the woman's face. "You should be prepared to defend your so-called simple life."

"Stop! Just, just tell me what you want from me. I'll do anything—" Momo almost screams when the fire narrowly misses Tōshirō's brow.

"Break the spell."

"I, I, I can't!" the girl cries. "I don't know how to! I don't know what reiryoku is or what it feels like!"

"You will. You _must_."

The courtesan brushes a stray white strand from the baby's face. His bottom lip trembles as he attempts to leave her grip. Momo feels her expression twist, wrung like a deformed persimmon.

"Those eyes… I know them too well," Bel says. "That deep, unforgiving hatred of circumstance."

Momo's muscles heave painfully against the unfathomable force, knees digging into the tatami. Her breath strains like the audio from a poorly-wired speaker, a bead of sweat rolling off her chin.

"You wish the world was different, but you are too afraid to do anything about it."

"What makes you think I _can_?!"

"I saw what you did to that man outside," Bel says. "That is not the first time you have pushed back against the tide. You read all of these books about injustice, building a repertoire of rage, but choose to box it in."

"What good is anger in a world like this?" Momo can't help but laugh between the tremors, mouth aching. "Anger does not feed mouths! Anger does not pay the bills! I'm just another whore, born into the palm of poverty. There is nothing I can guarantee for myself, other than the security of a routine—however damned—and making sure Granny and Tōshirō have enough."

Something untamed broils in her gut, in rhythm with how her body convulses, but just when Momo thinks she understands the fever, it stops responding and throws her deeper into despair. Her forehead hits the ground, as she fumbles for some other option.

"If you give in to Seireitei," Bel starts, "you will sacrifice more than just the opportunity to live. It won't just eat you, but everyone who is unwilling to kill it first."

A sob leaves Tōshirō's throat, as the heat closes in on his cheek. Momo clenches and unclenches her fists, face pinched with tears. The words come down hard, pinning her skin back at needlepoint; the responsibility of a lifetime that doesn't belong to her weighs in like an ugly bruise.

"You can't kill something that isn't alive to begin with!" she spits. "And with or without my interference, Tōshirō will achieve greatness—"

"At present, he will lose an eye!" Bel's voice booms, boasting an octave that seizes all the air from the girl's throat. "Unless you get up and stop waiting for other people to decide the stakes, he will grow up knowing disability and hardship and have _you_ to blame for it! This is not some game, Momo Hinamori, where you win with work ethics and love. This is _reality_ , where the Shinigami will sooner kill this baby than let it become a hero, a _threat_ to their system. When the ones with the least understanding of compassion find you, you will never see the light of the sun again, even if you _beg for your life!_ "

The courtesan pauses, as if recalling some unspeakable event, before her gaze takes on a dangerous tint. The kidō closes in on Momo further, squeezing down her lungs.

"You have lost respect for your own life, little peach," Bel says, fingers tightening around the candle. "And so you lose the will to change your bearings. But women like us cannot afford such weakness, the call for a domestic existence. I want you to remember this, this _fear_. Watch it set you on fire and raise you back from the dead."

The candle finally makes contact with skin and Tōshirō shrieks; Momo doesn't think she'll ever outlive that sound. She pushes towards him with her calves, a last-ditch attempt to fight the kidō, saliva tearing through a thoroughly-ground mouth.

But in the next moment, all the sound in the room is drowned out by something breaking inside. It doesn't burst into warmth or sparks, form a ball of energy like in her beloved anime; no, it just _bleeds_ across the floor of her soul, an insect's wing wrung dry after taking flight.

In her periphery, she sees the Oiran rise with a look of equal excitement and terror, but her vision begins to slip. She pictures her back begin to split open and drip red. Red streaks down a shower drain. Red shadows on a malted beach. Red droplets on a wet market counter, where fish have been slit and left to die. Red stains on a couch, like ink stamps. And the girl knows there is no turning back, as her reiatsu completely shatters the kidō and floods the entire hallway with screams.

* * *

When Momo comes to, she finds herself in a futon with Tōshirō nestled against her chest. He suckles his tiny thumb, a freshly burned line under his right eye. Some kind of ointment has been smeared on it, sticky and transparent, but the damage is as clear as day and sends fire through the girl's veins.

"Welcome back," Bel calls from the window. It is wide open, allowing for a much-needed reprieve from the smoke. "My last client just departed. He left a comb for you."

Momo sits up, careful not to wake the baby. The quivering feeling inside of her has subsided, replaced by full-fledged hunger and what she vaguely understands as spiritual energy, in its most dormant but intrusive form. Her body wants only for her to rip it out, but her hands instead move to the aforementioned comb on the ground. She feels an overwhelming need to touch things, to make sure that the room exists and that she is in the room.

"Nagano was looking for you," Bel says. "You missed your session tonight." When there is no response, she tries something else. "Mifune, was it? The girl beside you."

"What of her?" Momo finally asks, unable to look at the courtesan.

"An obedient child, ideal for the profession. The moment Nagano grows bored of your insubordination, he will move on to her. How long do you think that will take?"

"I get it," the girl replies. "You win, all right? It was easier to let myself forget, but now I know that whether it's me or another girl, we all wind up in that room sooner or later. Something has to change." When she turns to meet Bel's gaze, those pitch-black eyes shine like fire. "So what happens now?"

The woman brings over a desk mirror bespeckled with rhinestones and kneels beside the child. She holds it up, both of them seeing different prospects. A promising future. The drive to murder. Hatred. Whatever the case, there is the face of a girl who knows that this world is artificial but cruel, that many people will seek to kill her all over again, but that there is much to prepare for in the meantime.

The ivory comb slides into her black hair, glaring something awful. She tilts her head and smiles back at it.

"I will show you what you can do to men who hurt you, _imouto_."


End file.
